


no voices can blame you for sun on your wings

by Blake



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: F/F, Open Relationships, PWP, Pirate King Elizabeth Swann, Rum, just some women being women, post-AWE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:33:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25979026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: Anamaria is the first person to find her in a long time.
Relationships: Anamaria/Elizabeth Swann
Comments: 14
Kudos: 33





	no voices can blame you for sun on your wings

**Author's Note:**

> This was super nostalgic and fun for me to write, and I hope it's fun to read, too!

Anamaria is the first person to find her in a long time.

“What are you doing here?” Elizabeth tries to sound demanding, and not _just_ excited beyond measure to see a familiar face. They were practically strangers to one another five years ago; there is no word for an acquaintance who sails up to one’s private cove after five years, without warning.

“Don’t worry, your husband is safe,” Anamaria says, eyes open wide, hands spread in a calming gesture. Perhaps Elizabeth should feel guilty for not needing any calming. Instead, she studies the salt-dried, brown skin of Anamaria’s narrow knuckles and wonders what they would feel like against her lips. “Jack is safe. Their ships are safe. I come here on other matters, for counsel, judgment, and some fucking common sense.”

They discuss those matters over tea. The ship anchored just offshore is barely visible through Elizabeth’s kitchen window. Her eyes flicker back and forth between it and Anamaria’s ocean-black eyes.

“You are the pirate king, are you not?” Anamaria asks after explaining the details of a contracted agreement with another captain who had reneged on the deal.

“Oh, I am,” Elizabeth sighs. She leans back into her chair, wraps her arms around her son when he runs up for a hug. Anamaria’s eyes track her movement, full of that violent expression which conveys actively holding back judgment. “Still, it is not often that I am asked to get involved in these matters.”

She half expects Anamaria to make a snide comment about the pirate king being distracted from her duties by motherhood. She has many responses well prepared for such attacks, for she has used them many times, in conversations with many men, including her own husband, who suffers his own duties so eagerly it _almost_ makes her look bad by comparison. But it’s not that she shirks her duties as pirate king. She just isn’t as proactive and vigilant about _anything_ as Will is. She takes on the issues of those who dare to find her and speaks up when she sees some egregious wrong in the pirate world. But what her title means most to her is that which it provides her: freedom.

She is prepared to explain this, but she has no response ready when Anamaria takes _her_ comment as an insult. “I do not _need_ your help, more than any other captain,” she says, bristling, crossing her arms in front of her so Elizabeth can count the hairs standing on end all across her thin, muscular forearms.

Ah, so they both know what it feels like to have their competence questioned at every turn.

Elizabeth pushes her son toward his playroom without a word, and he obeys—that’ll be his father’s influence. “I am accusing you of no such thing.” She turns to the kitchen table again and rests her elbows upon it to lean forward. “Not of needing help, nor of seeking special favors on account of our—social connections,” she says with a wrinkled nose, finding it an unsuitable term to describe Captain Jack Sparrow, but unable to think of any better. “It’s just that not many are clever enough to find me to seek my counsel.”

Anamaria’s eyes narrow at her. Elizabeth does not know what it is that she’s trying to gauge.

She pours them both more tea.

Soon enough, the tea becomes rum. Elizabeth keeps some around for when she’s in pirate company and for the nights she wishes she could be.

“Do you not miss it, the sea?” Anamaria asks, tilting toward the fireplace and thus, toward Elizabeth, who is lounging on the floor between the fire and the chair her guest is seated in.

Elizabeth tilts her chin to finish off a large sip. The world spins a little as she rights herself. “Here’s the thing,” she starts with well-practiced conviction. “The sea—all it means is freedom, right? Pirates love the sea because she gives them the freedom to sail about, doing what they like under the open sky. But that’s not _my_ freedom. After _years_ of being a governor’s daughter, I finally have the freedom to do what I like! Yes, I enjoy going out to sea sometimes, but I also collect books—have you seen my library? And I love being a mother.” She pauses a moment to remember whether or not she put her son to bed already. “Yes, I did. And I get to help people! I provide housing and food for those who need shelter or escape from the law—did you know that? Why would I give that all up just to sail the seven seas playing pirate?”

Elizabeth realizes that in the course of her speech, she has jostled Anamaria in such a way that her cup of rum has splashed across her breeches. Elizabeth scowls-then-laughs in apology, and lowers her mouth to the stained spot above Anamaria’s knee, sucking the sweet spill out of the thin cotton.

She does so for some time before Anamaria grabs her by the chin and pulls her away. It’s a gentle touch, but still somehow reproachful. Her eyes look dark, careful mirrors with the firelight bouncing around in them. She studies Elizabeth’s face with great scrutiny. Elizabeth feels herself trying to look pretty.

“I am not a governor’s daughter,” Anamaria says, soft and soothing, though Elizabeth hears the potential for judgment in the words and immediately feels remorseful. “I must make do with what freedom I can find.”

A bright, heavy moment flashes through them. _This is our freedom_ , Elizabeth thinks frantically, pushing her face up against the bony fingers that hold her still. _This could be our freedom_. Gently, quietly, she licks across the weathered pad of flesh at the base of her thumb.

Anamaria releases her and sits back into her chair, lips pursed tight before she adds, “And that happens to be the pirate life that you are too good for.”

The log in the fireplace burns to breaking three times before Elizabeth decides on something to say. She spends those several long minutes watching Anamaria’s angular face, and the soft, narrow expanse beneath her shirt. It has been so long since she got to touch another woman. She craves Anamaria’s proximity with every fiber of her body, the way she craves the fire after walking through the cold rain. In no way is she too good for Anamaria, but apparently, that fact is not entirely visible on her face.

But Anamaria speaks before she gets the chance to. “I found you because Jack told me where to find you, because William Turner told _him_ where to find you.”

It’s an answer to a question that has gone unspoken all night. “I assumed as much,” she says carefully.

The pressed line of Anamaria’s mouth hardens. Elizabeth longs to feel it soften under her tongue, like so much melting ice. “Jack and Will, they—There are few secrets they do not share.”

The rum comes back to Elizabeth in a single surge of delighted humor. She finally recognizes the look on Anamaria’s face as _pity_. She laughs. She laughs for so long that Anamaria looks nervously toward the bedroom where her son is sleeping. She laughs until Anamaria finishes the remnants of her rum that Elizabeth had not managed to spill.

“I just thought—I did not think it right for you to be so happy, without knowing—”

“I know enough,” Elizabeth finally spits out, leaning her elbow against Anamaria’s stained knee. They sway together, with rum and heat and momentum. “Do you really think a pirate king would place limits on her husband’s freedom?” She rests her chin on her arm and smiles up at Anamaria until she has her full attention, eyes wide and mouth slack. “Or her own?”

Anamaria grabs her chin again, but this time, it is neither gentle nor reproachful.

They kiss on the floor beside the fire, but all heat in the room seems to radiate from the body pressed against Elizabeth’s. They roll around, fighting for good angles, limbs knocking against the hard floor so often that Elizabeth ceases to feel the impact. All she feels is the slick of Anamaria’s tongue under her own, the teeth biting down on her lip, the heaving chest against hers, and the warm press of a thigh between her legs.

Her hands thirst for more, so she gives up the struggle for position, lets her spine sink into the floor, and pushes her hand past the sleek, hard muscle of Anamaria’s stomach and into the damp heat of her breeches. “Oh,” Elizabeth gasps, feeling almost as though she’s touching _herself_ as she pushes her fingers past thick, coarse hair and into the slick, loose folds beneath. She reaches until her two fingers are _wet_ , pushes just barely _in_ to the soft give of feverish flesh, and then retreats, coating everything within reach. It feels so _good_ to touch another woman like this after so long, to feel her shudders of pleasure in the slack of her kiss, in the palpable pulse where her fingers press in, hard and exploring. Elizabeth feels herself clenching against the dull pressure of Anamaria’s leg in response. “You’re perfect.”

Anamaria makes quick work of pushing up Elizabeth’s simple dress all the way up to her chin, exposing her to the night, to all the world, to Anamaria’s _mouth_. Elizabeth groans in awe as Anamaria fits the whole swell of her breast in her mouth, and then groans in desire as she feels strange, nervy sensations rush through her. It’s the first time anyone has done this to her since she became a mother; the reclamation of it sends her whole body flooding with pleasure.

Rough fingers dance teasingly between her thighs, making Elizabeth writhe around, feeling nothing but cold air, even as she feels herself flexing and pulsing to draw it, anything, _in_. “Fuck me,” Elizabeth says, asking quite nicely, she thinks, considering the circumstances.

Anamaria shifts up to kiss her again, swallowing Elizabeth’s moans while her fingers explore. When she pulls away, the shine of Elizabeth’s spit flashes across her lips. “Want to be fucked by a filthy, dread pirate?” she asks as she pushes in with one finger—and then two, when Elizabeth moans and sinks down around the pressure, begging with every inch of her body for more.

If the glint of Anamaria’s grin is anything to go by, it seems that she finds something rewarding and empowering in being Elizabeth’s filthy, dread pirate as much as Elizabeth enjoys having all her childhood fantasies blossom forth in this one unexpected moment.

Elizabeth closes her eyes, rendered blind anyway by the sliding pressure of Anamaria’s curled hand as she pulls loosely out, spreading her open, and then in again for a few hard, deep thrusts. There’s a storm building already under Anamaria’s fingers. Elizabeth can’t tell how long she has before it breaks.

As it turns out, it’s not very long at all.

Powered by the energy of the sun bursting inside her, she pushes Anamaria’s hand away and knocks her flat on the floor. “You forget, I am your king,” Elizabeth mumbles into a victorious kiss, sounding slow and stupid to her own ears. But her body is quick enough. She pulls Anamaria’s breeches down and off and holds her soft thighs fast so she can’t squirm away. The fire has died down so much that she has to drift very close even to _see_ the shiny, flushed flesh between her legs. She means to say something clever about _demanding treasure_ , but she can’t be sure if she gets the words out or not, because she’s too focused on filling her mouth up and sucking.

Anamaria is filthy with sweat, salt, and sea. It’s _too much_. It’s tender and holy. It’s the best thing Elizabeth ever tasted. She wants to choke on it, or drown. She could drink forever and still be thirsty, like a parched sailor surrounded by ocean. She feels the phantom touch of Anamaria’s fingers inside her, feels like she could burst again just from this plush softness against her lips, this thick, heavy wetness pulsing out under her tongue.

All too soon, entwined disappointment and excitement spreads through Elizabeth as she feels Anamaria’s bucking up messily into her mouth, the muscles in her hips flexing under Elizabeth’s grip, and two hands coming to pull at her hair, holding her in place. Elizabeth listens attentively, with her whole mouth, holding it still where Anamaria wants her, swirling her tongue, sucking, kissing, flicking until Anamaria breaks under her—shuddering so hard Elizabeth has to hold her in place, gushing out across Elizabeth’s chin. A broken cry pushes against her closed mouth, just loud enough for Elizabeth to hear. She laps at everything she can reach with Anamaria’s hands still in her hair, until the body beneath her calms into stillness. Sweat cools on the thighs bracketing her shoulders. She collects it under her palms.

She’s pleased to see Anamaria wrestling with a smile. It motivates her to drag herself across the floor to rest her head on Anamaria’s shoulder. She slides her hand up under her shirt. Excitement builds in her throat as she feels curves and bumps and skin that she has not even seen yet. There is still so much to explore.

“So,” Anamaria says, her smile now spread into something swollen and sly, “About that captain who reneged, and how you were going to help me kill him and steal all his treasure…”

Elizabeth laughs. “Am I to believe that this was your plan all along?” she says, believing no such thing. “To seduce the pirate king and use her favor to have your way with the seas?”

Anamaria’s hand loops around her back, pulling her close and tight enough to undermine her words. “What else would you expect from a filthy pirate?”


End file.
